


You're not a monster, I said (but I lied)

by PersonyPepper



Series: But a Place for Crows to Rest their Feet [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brave Jaskier | Dandelion, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cheating, Child Acquisition, Emotional Hurt, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is a Mess, Hate Sex, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Infidelity, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Violence, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Trans Character, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Unwilling sex, dubcon, just in case <3, mentioned self harm, mentioned transphobia, oh no i accidentally wrote more of this, will tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25019362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: "Geralt?” So quiet, so hopeful. The sounds get louder as he approaches their bedroom, the sound of skin against skin, grunts, bit-off moans.Please don’t let this happen. Please not to me. Not again. Not Geralt.He pushes open the door, his heart running a mile in his chest.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s)
Series: But a Place for Crows to Rest their Feet [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015470
Comments: 269
Kudos: 679
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

The wind blows past him, half-shoving him into his apartment. A hideous storm, they’d said, and for once in Jaskier’s life, it seems like the weathercasters had been right. He nearly trips over a bucket of paint as he walks in; the kitchen floor, a little ways in front of him, is lined with paper and rollers and trays on the floor, the walls themselves painted lime green. Or at least, someone had begun painting them, only to get distracted half way.

His feet ache, he’s been working shifts till he feels like crying and he has the most  _ god-awful crick _ in his neck that he can’t seem to work out. He wants to sink to the floor right there,  _ what’s the point anymore? _ But he trudges on, looking for his boyfriend, desperately in need of a cuddle. Unpacked boxes sit here and there but most of it’s done, at least.

He climbs up the stairs, bones weary from standing for hours on end and plastering his customer service smile on his face. He’s snapped out of his thoughts as he hears the sound of bed springs squeaking, dread a heavy weight in his gut. 

“Geralt?” So quiet, so hopeful. The sounds get louder as he approaches their bedroom, the sound of skin against skin, grunts, bit-off moans.

_ Please don’t let this happen. Please not to me. Not again. Not Geralt. _

He pushes open the door, his heart beating a mile in his chest.

He’s met with the sight of his lover’s back, muscles contracting, oh-so beautifully lined with sweat. He’s met with Geralt’s body leant over another, his white hair hiding their face from Jaskier’s sight as he kisses them. An indecent groan leaves the body’s lips, a masculine voice as deep as Geralt’s own but so unlike it, too.

A soft whimper leaves Jaskier’s throat, eyes wide in horror as he takes a heavy step back. He pushes a hand against his mouth, lips clasped tight together as he watches Geralt turn to him.

“Jaskier.” He has no right saying his name like that, sounding so good, sounding so  _ fucked out. _

“Jaskier, wait—” he goes to make himself decent, cock hard and slick with lube, skin flushed as he reaches for his clothes, and moves to reach out and take Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier runs.

His socks slip against the wood floor they’ve just put in; new, hopeful to start a new life, a new life _together_. How stupid he’s been.

He trips on the last of the stairs and crashes to the ground, Geralt following with a pair of joggers hastily tugged on, worry etched on his face as he reaches out.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Geralt.” It’s nothing but a whisper, filled with such loathing that he feels Geralt recoil with it.

“Jaskier, I—” He can’t do this, he can’t fucking  _ do  _ this. Jaskier keeps his eyes trained on the ground as he gets his keys, his wallet and phone still in his pocket and not chucked onto the sofa as he usually does, thankfully.

He makes for the door, wind pushing against him, rain heavy on the sidewalk. He watches as the man Geralt had been fucking into leaves from the window, half dressed and hair mussed like a lunatic escaping from an asylum. He holds in a snort, thankful for the raindrops that hide his tears.

“You can’t go out like this, Jaskier,” Geralt says, grabbing him by the arm to stop him, “Please, just let me—” bastard’s fucking begging. Jaskier turns to him, grabs him by the collar and butts him in the nose.

“Said don’t  _ fucking _ touch me.”

~~

Jaskier drops to the hotel floor, cheapest he could find through his haze of tears. He can’t breathe, can’t  _ think _ , his mind filled with static; too many voices, too much noise, and his chest is stuffed to the brim with black roses.

His phone rings, hasn’t stopped ringing since he left, but at least Geralt hadn’t followed him.

Heartbreak is acute in its pain, sharp but all-consuming, leaving him empty. He manages to sprawl out on the bed, fallen into it and unable to move with his limbs so heavy. He stares up at the ceiling, wishing for the world to simply swallow him whole.

He has so many questions. But only one stands out loud enough in the mess of it all.

_ What was it about him? _

Was he too loud? Or too annoying? Not… good enough of a fuck? Too fussy or— he doesn’t  _ know _ why people keep doing this to him, telling them they love him, only to fuck around behind his back.

And all the trust he’d put into Geralt, all the hope that he’d love him for himself— not for his untouched money, not for his pretty face.

He’d tried so hard to be good, to not be too much, but Geralt had welcomed it, had called him breathtaking, called him his little lark for being so melodic, for his fluttering heart and his light wings filled with life.

He hopes the diamond he’d hidden in his drawers catches sunlight and burns their house to the ground.

~~

He doesn’t know how many days pass; like a lark with a clipped wing, he stays motionless, damned to the ground. He knows someone knocks at the door, tells him it’s time he pays for another couple days or leave. And he knows he’s been lifted, walked down stairs and shoved out the door none too kindly onto the street.

He needs his clothes and his guitar. Yennefer lives an hour’s drive away, and he’s sure that he’s still welcome there. He walks back to the house, one heavy step in front of another, and prays to every god he knows that Geralt isn't home.

~~

To his ever-shitty luck, Geralt is home.

The man rises from the sofa as Jaskier unlocks the door, probably looking dead on his feet. He hasn’t showered in days, his hair a mess, sticking up in odd angles, probably; he hasn’t eaten, either. A dangerous cycle, the numbness leads to hunger and the hunger leads to numbness. He can’t be arsed to do anything about it.

He can’t look at him, stares at his own feet as Geralt approaches him.

“Where’ve you been, Jaskier? I’ve been so fucking worried—”

Jaskier can’t stop the bitter,  _ bitter  _ laugh from leaving his mouth, body shaking from it. He tries to step around Geralt, only for the man to move in front of him, blocking his path.

“Jaskier,” he doesn’t deserve to sound so  _ agonized _ , he doesn’t deserve to feel  _ pain _ , not after all he’s caused Jaskier, “just talk to me. Please.”

He blinks at the ground, resolutely not looking up at him. He knows he’ll lose it if he does— if he looks into those golden eyes he’d looked so lovingly into, at those lips that he’d shared intimate kisses with, those cheeks that he had cupped, so endeared with him.

“What do you want me to say?” It’s much more of a rasp than it is his own voice

“I want you to say anything! Scream! Yell at me! Just something to show you fucking care.”

He snaps his head up, eyes lined with furious tears. “ _ Something to show I fucking care? _ Call up your little boyfriend if you want to be cared for,” he seethes, “ _ because I don’t fucking care about you _ .” A lie if he’s ever told one, but it feels so good, seeing Geralt’s face fall in pain, so good watching his eyes turn red as he holds back his tears.

Geralt’s voice is so quiet, so unsure. “You’re my boyfriend.” It’s nothing more than a whisper.

“Should’ve thought of that before you fucked him.” He goes to walk up the stairs of the house, Geralt following behind him hurriedly.

“Jaskier, please, it was a mistake, I—”

“Did you enjoy it?” He snaps, “Making a fool out of me?”

“No,” Geralt says breathlessly, “Melitele, no, Jaskier, I  _ love _ —”

“Shut up! Shut  _ up _ , Geralt, Gods know you don’t, we wouldn’t fucking be here if you did.” He pulls a bag from under their— the bed, pulling clothes out of his drawers and stuffing them in haphazardly.

Geralt stands in the doorway, looking so lost as he leans against the frame. Jaskier can’t fucking stand this bed, this fucking room, memories of late night movies and cuddles, memories of slow sex and loving overriden by Geralt ramming his cock into a faceless man’s body. He starts shoving things into his bag, pausing as he comes across the small velvet box he’d hidden there.

He stares at it, slow tears dripping down his face, grieving for a future he’s lost, a future he’ll likely never have.

“Here,” he’s proud that his voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t break as he throws the damned box at Geralt’s chest, “Fucking  _ sell it— _ or use it to propose to some fucker, I don’t give a shit.” He looks away, not wanting to see the man’s face as he opens it, tugging on the zip to the bag to try and close it.

He manages the zipper, and tugs the strap over his shoulder before grabbing his guitar, still in its case.

“Don’t leave,” Geralt asks, falling to his knees, clutching the box in his hands, despair so clear in and around him, “I’m so sorry, Jaskier. At least talk to me, just—”

“How could you do this to me?” A harsh whisper as Jaskier lets Geralt see for the briefest moment how he’s hurt him, how he’s broken him. His voice cracks, his words thick, his throat so dry. Tears drip down his face as he stares at Geralt a moment longer, taking in his wide eyes, wild hair framing his face, on his knees, his lips parted with an answer he doesn’t have.

Jaskier calmly walks down the stairs, slams the front door, and doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt fill on tumblr for @likechoonee!
> 
> leave me a comment! let me know what you thought <333


	2. Chapter 2

The numb’s set in again as he knocks on Yenn’s door, collapsing into her arms as soon as she opens it. She half-drags him in before kicking the door closed. The worry on her face is too much; she’s always been too good at reading him

_ What’s wrong, _ she asks.

_ Everything,  _ he says, limp on the sofa. 

Her eyes narrow as she turns to her phone, staring into Jaskier’s lifeless eyes. He barely feels them.

He’s grateful for the static that settles into his brain, Jaskier isn’t sure if he can stand hearing his name again. A couple minutes later, he feels arms wrap around him, pull him into an embrace.  _ I’m going to kill him,  _ Yenn promises.

Jaskier just wants to forget.

~~

He drinks, drinks till he can’t see straight, drinks till he can’t breathe right. He comes home to Yenn fucking high, pupils blown wide and neck dotted with hickeys because really, what is he?

Intolerable. Unlovable.

And what can he do but drink and dance and grind and fuck to forget that about himself.

And  _ still _ , Jaskier can’t forget kind touches, amber eyes, inside jokes, and sharing looks. He can’t forget comfort, belonging, no matter how fake it had been, no matter that their entire relationship had been made of lies. He’s intolerable, unlovable, and Geralt had told him he was the best fucking thing to happen to him.

_ Fuck _ , he hates him. Fucking  _ hates  _ him for  _ destroying _ him, after all they’d shared.

~~

_ “I’ve— I’ve been, um… cheated on. Don’t have the best  _ track record _ when it comes to relationships...” Geralt pulls him into his lap, wiping away single tears and presses a kiss to his temple. _

_ “I'll never do that to you, little lark.” _

He drinks harder that night, because damn his memories.

~~

His ears ring. Someone’s talking to him, but he can’t quite make out the words, can’t quite feel the hand that grips his arm. The cracked cement of the sidewalk digs into his ass, rough brick scratches against his arm from where he leans against it. The hand on his shoulder shakes him, Jaskier’s head bobbing with the movement as he tries to find his bearings. The sun is too bright, much too bright, and the stranger shifts to block it from Jaskier’s eyes.

His head throbs as he blinks, fingers tightening around the bottle in his hand to bring it to his lips, only to have his hand pushed down. _ “Think that’s enough Cintran Ale for you, Jask.”  _ And  _ oh,  _ that voice.

That lovely voice, lovely,  _ lovely _ voice, he loves it so much, that lovely voice. He wants to bring the lips of that lovely voice to his, wants to kiss those lovely lips, kiss that lovely face, tell that lovely heart that he loves it so much.

He wants to bash his head against the wall, he wants to fucking die.

Geralt’s hands wrap under his arms, pull him up onto unstable feet. Fuck, is it posssible to be drunk and hungover at the same time? Jaskier seems to have perfected it.

White hair tickles at his nose. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, arms on the broad chest in front of him, trying to push him away, “Get  _ off _ me, get off—” Moving is hard, his head spins, his mouth is dry, and all he wants to do is get shitfaced again. Each touch hurts, hurts more than he can say, he feels it burn through his ragged clothes, singe into his skin.

Geralt steps back, looks so worried, how fucking dare he look so fucking— “You look like shit, Jask.” 

Jaskier doesn't even have the energy to laugh. “Don’t pretend you care, asshole.” His voice is raspy, nothing like the melodic softness it had carried but a month ago. He stumbles forward, stomach lurching as he grips the wall for stability, Geralt’s hands coming out to steady him

“Don’t know why you think you can touch me,” he whispers, susch ice in his words as he stares at the crushed little dandelion growing out of the cracks in the sidewalk, ‘“You lost that right the second you… well.” He doesn’t have to continue to know his point’s been made.

“Just… listen, Jaskier,  _ please _ .” Jaskier’s head swims, half-full beer bottle falling out of his hands and spilling over Geralt’s boots ‘cause fuck him. Fuck him for breaking his heart, just— fuck him.

Geralt barely flinches, only looks more worried. “Gods, when’s the last time you ate, Jask, let me take you home—”

“What the  _ fuck _ is going through your head, Geralt!” Jaskier all but screams, rage making him shake. “You  _ cheated _ on me, Geralt, I  _ loved  _ you and you broke me and you cheated on me and—,” his head throbs, everything’s much too loud, “And that’s it. You don’t get to care for me. It’s not like you ever did.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Jas,” Geralt says, so quiet, ashamed.

It’s a good look on him.

The agony on Geralt’s face only makes him angrier, but he’s so weak, oh-so weak. He feels his legs wobble, lips parted, breaths heavy as he steadies himself and stumbles further along the wall.

He has no idea where he’s going, only knows that he needs to get away from him, from this fucking conversation. “I was scared— we were getting serious and—” 

“Brilliant, fuck someone else because you’ve got commitment issues, just—” Gods, he can’t stand him, can’t stand how pitiful he looks. It’s fucking disgusting, fucking  _ disgusting  _ how much he wants to comfort him,  _ “Fuck you.” _

~~ 

Fuck him. Fuck him for being so weak. Fuck Geralt’s lips for feeling so soft against his, fuck his hands for feeling so comforting, so right as they splay over Jaskier’s hips.

And fuck Jaskier for letting it all happen. 

“I missed you so much,” Geralt whispers into his lips.

“Shut up. This is a hatefuck. I  _ hate _ you.” He doesn’t, and it’s not, but fuck it all.

Gentle hands lay him down on the bed, the same hotel Jaskier had checked into months ago, feeling so numb. How ironic that this is the place they choose to destroy him further.

Calloused fingers drag over his nipples, back arching to brush his cock against Geralt’s. He kisses him as Geralt opens himself up, complimentary lotion so strong that it burns Jaskier’s nose.

They fuck. Nothing more, rough— Geralt writhes underneath him, Jaskier’s thrusts fast, punched out moans from the both of them, and gods, it feels so  _ right _ . He can’t help the tears that work down his face, the sobs he hides in the kisses he presses down Geralt’s neck as he drives his dick into him like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

It actually does feel like dying, he finds out, sobbing on Geralt’s chest, cock deep inside him but he can’t  _ move _ . Strong arms wrap around him, Jaskier’s face wet, nose running as he shakes. 

_ Why is this his life?  _

“Why’ve you done this to me, Geralt?” He manages between hiccups, his breath hitching as they shift, Geralt curled up against him as they lay against scratchy sheets. “I don’t— what did I  _ do _ , why couldn’t you just talk to me? I loved y—” his sobs leave him breathless as he cuddles closer into Geralt’s embrace. It’s just all so pathetic, isn’t it? He’s crying in his ex’s arms— fuck _ ,  _ it’s just so  _ sad _ .

“What do I do?” Geralt asks, voice so deep Jaskier feels it in his chest despite how unsure and heartbroken it is. He only smiles at him, a small, pitiful little thing.

“You’ve done enough,” it carries no bite. Jaskier is tired,  _ oh-so exhausted. _ “Hold me for the night, my love,” he whispers, his heart shattering more and more with each word, “and come morning, we’ll head our separate ways.” 

Geralt says nothing, only holds him tighter, closer and presses a kiss to his head.

Neither of them sleep that night, wrapped in each other's arms as they steal time from a future they’ve already lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation! Perhaps not the one y'all wanted because this is Pain, but here it is! Written for @winter-fir on tumblr as a promptfill!!
> 
> Let me know what you thought!! Comments make me giddy <333


	3. Chapter 3

"Didn't know you smoked." Jaskier takes another drag of his cigarette, parting his lip to watch smoke curl out from his mouth and wisp towards the heavens. The door clatters shut as and the air is cold around them. The smoke in the back of his throat is just as pleasant as bitter coffee in late evenings.

"Didn't know you're a cheating bastard and yet, here we are." Geralt doesn't move from where he's leant against the other side of the door frame but Jaskier can taste the bitter hurt that fills the air. He throws the cigarette butt on their—  _ the _ patio, crushes it under his foot as Geralt tightens the robe around his waist, probably still undressed from when they’d fucked last night. "We need to stop this. I don't want to be your new Yennefer." He shudders as Geralt slips his hands over his waist from behind him, resting his chin on Jaskier's shoulder.

They stare into the slowly lightening sky, the cicadas setting rhythm to the creaking of their broken hearts. "We could have had the world, Geralt," Jaskier mutters, leaning his head back against Geralt's shoulder.

"We could've had the world instead of this, instead of hurting each other with fucking smiles. Do you have any idea how much it hurts when you smile at me? Fucked out and content, knowing you fucked someone else with that same fucking smile on your face—" Jaskier swallows, fishing another cigarette out of his shiny new Marlboro box, already half through it, "To think I can never look at you with happiness again when you were the best thing that happened to me. How fucking shitty, Geralt."

Geralt makes a wounded little noise behind him, tightening his arms around Jaskier's waist. "You could. We could go to therapy, I want you; I want us back, Jaskier."

Jaskier laughs, lighting his cigarette and taking a slow drag in, relishing the way it burns the back of his throat. "Can't believe you had me fooled so well, Geralt. That 'I'll never do that to you, little lark' bullshit. I can't believe I actually trusted you, trusted you loved me enough to keep from hurting me." 

"I still love you," Geralt's voice is low by his ear, so deep that Jaskier can feel it in his own chest, "I love you so much." 

Jaskier loves him too. How fucking shitty, indeed.

The sun rises over the horizon, illuminating them on the porch. They're a hilarious parody of domesticity; Geralt's arms slung over Jaskier's hips as he smokes, the two of them watching the sun as it watches them. 

"Your singing— you're going to ruin your throat if you keep smoking, Jask." 

Jaskier hums, letting his eyes slip closed against the blinding sun as he takes another drag in spite. "I’m being forced to keep living; I don't really care, Geralt." He hears Geralt suck in a breath behind him, concern making him tense. 

"Jaskier—" but he has nothing to say, and neither does Jaskier. The moon hides behind sparse clouds as Geralt presses closer to his back, as if trying to protect Jaskier from himself. He chuckles, a huff of dry humor escaping with a cloud of white smoke. Bastard shouldn't have destroyed Jaskier in the first place.

"Why couldn't I be enough for you? Why couldn't you fucking talk to me? I don't fucking get it—" Geralt hair tickles at Jaskier's neck, his breath hot against Jaskier's neck in the chill air as he tries to find an answer. The silence stretches on, short grass waving in the gentle morning breeze.

Jaskier hums again, clicking his tongue as he pulls away from Geralt's embrace, hating the fact that it feels like pulling away from home. "Think it's time I get going, Geralt." 

He pretends he doesn't see the way Geralt's hands reach out to him, feel the way they try to linger on his waist. Jaskier steps down cracked concrete stairs and unlocks his car, tugging the driver's-side door open. 

"Jaskier, wait." Geralt looks panicked, forlorn and, oddly enough, shy. "Will you come for dinner? Was thinking about making Pierogi." Damn him for being so easy to love, and damn himself for being so easy to hurt.

"I think you forget we're not together anymore, Geralt. I think you forget you ruined us." It's barely a whisper. "See you around."

He ducks into his car and forces himself to keep from looking at Geralt where he stands on the porch, eyes sad as he looks on.

Stop lights blur as Jaskier blinks away tears on the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for a tumblr prompt!!! Let me know what you thought!! <33


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's Pov. For Im_BadWolf <3

He’s a bit too sweaty for his liking— the sun shines down on them, though, a blessing of happiness and light for the future. He damns Nenneke for the silly superstitions she’d worked into his head all those years ago, and wipes the wispy ends of his hair away from his face.

It’s a wreck. Hideously colored-walls, and the carpet is half-burned and half-stained; Geralt does not want to know the story behind either. He moves out of the way as Eskel brings in another box, pointing him to by the couch, and Lambert upstairs; the bastard curses, and Jaskier cracks a grin. He’s flushed, the beginnings of a sunburn blooming across his nose and he’s sweat right through his cropped top— Geralt isn't sure he’s seen a sight more beautiful.

“Well?” The floor creaks as Geralt steps closer to him, wrapping a hand around his waist as they take in their new home. “What do you think, little lark?” 

Jaskier laughs; Geralt’s heart flutters. Has he ever felt like this? It’s as if he’s falling headfirst down a never-ending well and loving it so thoroughly. He swallows the ever-present fear and holds his lover closer. “What do I think? I think it’s perfect, from the puke-orange walls to the abandoned cherub collection in the storage,” he grins at him, and Geralt is so in love. “It’s perfect.”

“Hm.” Jaskier laughs, presses a kiss to Geralt’s sweaty cheek, and walks upstairs to help out a now-very-loudly-swearing Lambert. Geralt looks at their home, and realizes he doesn’t have to just imagine him and Jaskier living together anymore, that they can, that they  _ are _ . Come nighttime, they’re both exhausted, giving Eskel and Lambert thanks and goodbyes before they fall into a barely-made mattress with the unassembled bed frame leant against the wall of their bedroom.

The house is expensive beyond reason for as shitty as it is, but between Jaskier's singing and cashiering, and Geralt teaching swordsmanship, they make it work. Late evenings spent apart to fall back into bed together is worth every ache; Geralt is in love, and Jaskier is in love, and the house keeps them safe, warm, and together. 

He startles awake with the memory of violet eyes and shouting nearly every night, Jaskier sound asleep beside him.

  
  


He flicks at the chips of dry paint on his hands, trying to rub it off— it’s persistent, much too much like blood. The ever-present fear burns bright tonight, and Geralt just wants a drink, dammit. It’s barely four, and there’s no one at the bar save for a couple lonely drunks cursing their wives. The vodka burns as he sips it, chill liquid making him wince. The pain is welcome, but forgotten. 

He’s never been one for the intricacies in color, in anything really— but those eyes, icy cobalt blue that promise reprieve and mischief— he tears his eyes away, taking another drink of his vodka. He should leave.

“Hey.” It’s all wrong. Geralt’s heart doesn't flutter, his mouth doesn’t go dry, he doesn’t love this man, he doesn’t even  _ want  _ him.

He should leave. 

But just for a little, he wants to forget the way Jaskier lingers at the windows to jewel shops, to forget that fear of spending eternity with him because oh,  _ Yennefer _ had gone so well, hadn’t she? “Hi,” he says, grimacing. 

“Let me buy you a drink?” He just wants to forget, just for a little, what’s so wrong about accepting a drink from a stranger? Geralt looks at him, takes in his blonde hair and blue eyes, his stocky figure and the thick muscle underneath his muted cardigan and jumper. He's none of the things Geralt loves about Jaskier: he's not a lanky idiot in silken shirts and tight jeans who talks like he's being paid to about everything and nothing. He doesn't want to make Geralt fall to his knees in awe upon sight; he's dull. Boring. 

He has to leave, he really does; he has a boyfriend he’s got to make dinner for and cuddle when he stumbles home tiredly after a half-a-day shift—

“Sure,” he says instead, “Sure.” 

The bed underneath him is soft, the body beside him warm. “I have a boyfriend.” He stares at the ceiling. “I love him. A lot.” His heart flutters and his mouth goes dry. An arm slinks over his chest, and fingers trail to the dusting of white hair. The man laughs, and icy cobalt eyes meet his. 

“Our secret, then.” 

  
  


Jaskier jumps into his arms when Geralt comes home to him in the early morning, the younger falling asleep on his feet as he fusses and checks over him, and  _ Gods _ , Geralt doesn’t deserve him.

He doesn’t deserve him.

Every press of their bodies is unholy, every touch disgusts Geralt till he's dizzy with it before he's kissed senseless, mindless. That's all he wanted isn't it? To forget the fear of losing Jaskier, and to forget the fear of forever and replace it with the fact of  _ now _ . The fact that he has a stranger's hands roaming over his chest, the fact that he's got a stranger's body bouncing on his cock-- they don't ask for names, it doesn't matter. They're both just here to forget.

But he can't stop, even when Jaskier tangling their legs together feels too much like being with the nameless man, even when he wants to shove his head into Jaskier’s neck and cry, and sob, and  _ beg _ when they make love—

It feels so good to forget; they fuck in the evenings, while Jaskier is off at work, when Geralt’s freshened up after a sword lesson… His hands feel bloody, rich red with guilt and he can’t stop digging himself into the hole.

The hole, in turn, becomes his grave.

  
  


The man knocks just as Geralt paints a stroke of lime green over the kitchen wall. "What're you doing here?" Geralt asks between kisses. The man's hands wrap around his shoulder as he kicks the door shut. What a stupid question. What’s  _ he doing here, ha— _

"Why do you think? Need you to fuck me." It's horrifyingly familiar, the way the man's legs wrap around Geralt's waist, the way the callous in his trigger finger drags through the white of his hair that Jaskier so adores. He feels sick, and he chooses to forget as he licks into the man's mouth.

It's quick enough to run up the stairs into his and Jaskier's bedroom, quicker to prep the man with three of his fingers. He's slow to push into him, though, slow to fuck him till he's begging for more. The shitty bed squeaks with each thrust, and blood rushes in his ears as he leans down, hair curtaining them as he presses a kiss to his lips. He bites off the man's moan with the kiss, thrusts even as they drag his cock across the man’s sweet spot—

The door creaks open, and Geralt stills as he hears a stifled whimper. 

_ No. _

"Jaskier." Watery blue eyes stare at them— Jaskier shakes, his hands clasped over his mouth. What has he done—  _ what has he done?  _ Geralt swears, and begins tugging on a set of joggers, "Jaskier, wait—”

But he's running, socks slipping against their newly laid wood, and Geralt feels like a predator chasing innocent prey as he follows after him. In his haste, Jaskier stumbles down the stairs, falls.  _ He’s shaking, _ crying, and his beautiful blues eyes swim and his soft skin turns a splotchy red— 

Gods, he won't even look at him. He won't even fucking look at him.

The front door’s opened, slamming against the wall with the wind of the storm; someone jumps out the window, and the rain rages as Jaskier walks away from the man, away from Geralt. 

Geralt is left to an empty house that had once held so much love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ,,,,, you asked for it
> 
> let me know what you thought <3
> 
> if you want more, ask/tell me you want more because i'd love to 
> 
> throw me some thoughts and ideas, let's break our hearts some more


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> timeline so far (including this chapter): 
> 
> geralt meets guy at bar and starts affair (chapter 4)
> 
> jaskier comes home to find geralt in the middle of his affair (chapter 1)
> 
> jaskier tries to comprehend what he saw (moves into yen's house, gets piss drunk, etc)
> 
> geralt and jaskier become fuckbuddies (chapter 3, implied that it's been going on for a couple weeks min
> 
> chapter 5 (this chapter) happens after chapter 3, they're still fuck buddies but it's been a couple months. 
> 
> This fic is a bit of a wildcard so i dont know if future chapters are going to be in order or not. Lemme know if anything's confusing/you want clarification.

Geralt, Jaskier thinks, is a good man.

Geralt’s mouth sinks farther down his cock, watery amber eyes peering up at him. Jaskier wants to praise him, wants so badly to call him a good boy, to run his fingers through the white of his hair and tell him how well he’s doing, and how much he adores him.

He barely manages to fight the words when Geralt presses his nose to the small of Jaskier’s stomach, swallowing around the cock in his throat. Instead, Jaskier’s hands are kept on Geralt’s shoulders, squeezing just a bit too tight to be friendly, and his eyes remain cold. Geralt, Jaskier thinks, used to be a good man. But he’s not a good man to him anymore.

Geralt gasps as he pulls back, a line of spit connecting his lips to Jaskier’s cock. He’s beautiful like this, lips swollen, pupils eclipsed, and hair mussed— absolutely gorgeous. It’s hard not to see the good man in him. Jaskier knows the way of his soft touches, the playful whispers, and the ever-steady presence ready to intervene. He’s love and hate all at once, a good man, and the most evil among them all. “Touch me,” Geralt begs. Jaskier knows what he asks for, he can see it in the way he holds himself, leaning forward and pleading for a loving kiss, a loving word, a loving ouch. Jaskier, damn him, wants to give it to him more than anything. “Jaskier,” he breathes, eyes wide and lips parted,  _ “Jaskier.” _

Jaskier leans to cup Geralt’s cheek, look into his eyes as he thumbs over his spit-slicked lower lip—

Jaskier could forgive him. He could forgive him, and they could go back to how they once had been; in-love with themselves and what the world could give them. He’s thought about it often enough, laying in an empty bed in Yennefer’s guest room and staring at a blank ceiling. He’s thought about Geralt cupping his waist whilst they destroy the kitchen making dinner, he’s thought about the house they’d bought with such high hopes that Geralt kneels in now, and Jaskier so sadly looks down on him in. 

Fuck. He could. He really could.

But there’s an ever-present guilt in Geralt’s eyes, and an ever-present sorrow in Jaskier’s. He realizes, night after night, staring at that empty ceiling in his empty bed, that they will never be able to scrub away their pain. He can't keep doing this. 

Jaskier squeezes his hand around Geralt’s jaw from a mockery of love to the reality at hand. Geralt rises as Jaskier guides him to, and watches with hungry, starved eyes as Jaskier lays down and spreads his legs. “Fuck me.” He rarely lets Geralt top him anymore; it brings back memories of unhurried kissing and slow lovemaking.  _ Fuck me _ , Jaskier’ll ask on the rare moments he lets Geralt put his dick in him,  _ fuck me _ . 

And Geralt will, like he’s being paid to, like he’s being held a gunpoint to fuck Jaskier, and it’s painful and horrible and perfect. 

It’s perfect. Because like this, Jaskier doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t love Geralt.

He bites back a sob as he cums, Geralt filling him soon after and Melitele, how fucking pitiful. 

How fucking pitiful they are. 

“I’m not coming back tomorrow,” he whispers, Geralt’s face tucked into Jaskier’s neck as he runs fading-calloused fingertips through milk-white hair. “I’m not coming back.” 

Geralt, as always, replies with silence.

The radio does not run as Jaskier drives home. He wonders when he’d stopped belting the top hits at the top of his lungs. He wonders if he even cares anymore. His car turns off with a sputter, and he has to sigh, to throw his head back and stare at the grey ceiling inches away from his face.

Fuck.  _ Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.  _

They could have had the world. They could have had the  _ world. _

The front door opens and he’s careful not to let in any of the fallen leaves with the autumn breeze. Yennefer gives him a look from over her glasses (of which she will never admit to wearing), and he knows she’s tired of it, of the pathetic way he keeps going back; really, he is too.

He showers off the scent of Geralt Rivia, scrubbing till his skin glows pink. Warm water runs down his back.

Jaskier had once known a woman named Dove. She’d told him that she’d called herself that because she’d finally found peace: being alone. _ The single life, Jaskier,  _ she’d told him, drunk, _ is the best life. I’ve never been happier.  _ He hums under his breath, the beginnings of a song tickling at his lips as he dries himself off. He pulls on sweatpants and a sweater, and smiles at his reflection despite how haggard he looks.

It can’t be so easy. He knows that, right now, he’s angry, he’s willing and he’s angry and that there will be night upon night where he’ll ache for Geralt’s touch more than anything else the world could ever offer him and that he’ll cry and grieve— he knows that it will not be easy… 

He doesn't go back tomorrow. Doesn't indulge in the painful sin of a betraying lover. It is torture; his hands ache to cup Geralt's waist, to touch him, and kiss him, and love him— oh he  _ wants— _

His guitar, poor Buttercup, rests at the corner of his room, a pile of notebooks and songsheets shoved beside her to keep her upright. She's all dusty, and if she had eyes, Jaskier imagines she'd be giving him the most lethal of puppy eyes; she fits perfect in his arms, and the drag of his fingers over her strings is rediscovered bliss. Yennefer finds him surrounded by songsheets filled with crossed out lyrics of heartbreak, heartache, and lust.

Her eyes are calculating when Jaskier comes to sit by her later in the evening, a healthy flush on his cheeks and a small spark in his eyes she hasn’t seen in months. Jaskier smiles at her, holds out his hands, and introduces himself as Dove. Not literally, but her eyes warm and she pulls him into one of her rare hugs that squeeze him till he can’t breathe. He thinks she gets the idea.

Her eyes shine with happy pride. The litter of songsheets prove to be the weakest beacon of hope Jaskier has seen, but they're beacons nonetheless. His shine with the first traces of life in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lemme know what you thought of this, especiallg the ending but mostly all of it 'cause it was spur of the moment lol.
> 
> also, does the timeline make sense or should i expand upon it? 
> 
> Next chapter's probably going to be how geralt deals with being caught, it's set after both his affair guy and jaskier leave him (i'll update the timeline for next chapter no worries).
> 
> Yeah, but this is fun <3 it'll be interesting to see how it goes (also one of you requested an alternative happy ending where geralt and jask get back together; i'm looking into doing it because man oh man you guys deserve it if youre reading all this Pain).
> 
> also this isnt beta'd so pls dont look too closely or youll find a little gremlin man called spelling mistakes staring back at you lmfao
> 
> anyways, 1 comment = 1 hug for jaskier 😌 bls,,,,,,,,, he needs ( _i_ need *sob*).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Suffer. :)

The evening breeze does nothing to soothe Geralt’s nerves. Leaves scratch across the sidewalk, rustle on their lawn. It’s too quiet, far too quiet. His phone lays silent beside him as he nurses a cup of coffee, and watches the sun rise. Jaskier hasn’t visited, and his scent is fading from their sheets. 

Their sheets. Their house, their home. As if Geralt hadn’t taken  _ their _ and turned it into something twisted and painful. As if Jaskier still lives with him, in their house. If Geralt closes his eyes, he can feel the phantom heat of his body leaning against him, the phantom sound of his laughter and grumbling and humming and whistling. His eyes flutter open.

Melitlele, it’s so  _ quiet. _

He downs the last half of his cup, and flicks his phone open to the messaging app, scrolling through texts that have received no reply. Something cold finds home in the pit of Geralt’s stomach; Jaskier hasn’t called back, hasn’t texted, nothing. It’s so quiet, despite the occasional car that sputters past their house. 

Yenn stares at him before closing the door shut behind her and stepping out into the autumn sunlight. He hasn’t forgotten everything he’d admired in her; her violet eyes as violent as wildflowers caught in a storm, the glare that makes him stutter though he hasn’t said a word. He can feel her rage, mostly because he’s been feeling the same rage towards himself. 

“Is he… ”

“Leave him alone.” She stands unwaveringly in front of the door, as if Geralt is a man expected to hurt Jaskier, as if Jaskier needs protection from him. “He’s getting better. Leave him alone.” The venom in her voice is nearly enough to poison him, her words cutting. 

“Yen, I just want to see him.” 

She stares at him for a moment longer. “You aren’t worth my insults, Geralt. Don’t come back.” The door slams behind her. 

“Who was it?” He hears Jaskier’s voice behind the door, the long-familiar sound of his guitar muffled. The guitar twangs; Yennefer could never lie to him. “Is he still—” And Geralt’s heart stutters with hope before he hears his lover’s silence and Yennefer cooing at him to stop crying.

He finds him with a cigarette pinched between his lips, sitting on the old swing a block away from Yen’s house. They’d have picnics there when he and Yenn had been together; Geralt can almost hear Jaskier’s joyful laughter and Ciri’s happy squealing as she chases behind her bard, the rest of the wolves sharing stories and beers with Yenn and her friends as Geralt manned the grill.

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, falling to his knees in the mulch by his lover’s feet. The damp of the wood soaks into his jeans. Jaskier makes a sound so wounded, cigarette burning bright orange in the pitch black of the night barely illuminated by the sole streetlamp. 

“Yenn told me you keep trying to talk to me.” 

“She says you’re doing well.” 

Jaskier laughs, a bitter thing that’s become awfully familiar. “I’m not doing well,” he chuckles. His voice is scratchy and rough, and Geralt wants to snatch the offending nicotine stick out of his hands, and hold him to his chest. “It’s a lot easier to pretend than it is to live the truth, Geralt. I scrub myself everyday till I’m pink in the hopes I’ll wash away my memories of us that get dragged back up when I sleep, and it’s so easy to pretend I can.”

A hand comes to cup Geralt’s cheek. Jaskier’s eyes bore into him. 

“I trusted you, you bastard,” he spits. His mouth twists like he’s trying not to cry, his face pink from the chill. “I trusted you, even after all the hurt I’ve been through. You did the same fucking  _ thing, _ Geralt. Made me think I was lovable,” he mutters miserably. He takes another drag of his cigarette, and Geralt watches smoke escape out of his nose before he breathes it out into the air. 

“You are,” Geralt dares to say, “I love you, Jaskier.” Jaskier shudders, clasps his hand over his mouth to swallow his sob. 

Crickets dare chirp around them, as if everything’s  _ fine,  _ as if their world hasn’t slammed and crashed and killed them both. 

“You know what I want?” Geralt hums in reply. “I just want to laugh with you,” Jaskier whispers, confiding as if it’s a taboo little fantasy, “Do you remember how we used to laugh? I just want— I just want to be happy.” 

Mulch digs into his knees. “Marry me.”

Jaskier blinks at him, and his mouth twists like he’s trying so hard, and yet, the sob bursts out of him, wet and  _ miserable _ . He shakes, and Geralt keeps his hands balled on his thighs in penance, begging for Jaskier to say yes. 

“You wouldn’t have to pretend.” Jaskier slips a hand over his eyes, mouth bared in a cry as he sobs. “We could be happy.” The ring burns against Geralt’s chest, strung alongside his medallion. 

“We  _ could’ve _ been happy, Geralt,” Jaskier corrects, and Geralt can't take it. He pulls Jaskier off the swing, and into his lap, wrapping his hands around his lover’s back as he straddles Geralt’s waist and sobs into his neck. He shakes, and Geralt crushes the cigarette against the underside of the swing before pulling Jaskier closer. “I love you so much, you asshole, I fucking—” Geralt cups the back of his head as Jaskier clings to him. “Take me home,” he mumbles. And Geralt holds him tight as he finds his feet, Jaskie’s legs wrapped around his waist. 

Geralt takes him home. 

Their house feels right as Jaskier walks through the threshold. The lime green of the kitchen’s still half-painted, and the boxes half unpacked as if their lives together have simply been put on hold. The door locks, and Geralt leans against it, pulling Jaskier flush to him by his hips. He tilts his head, lips parted for a kiss. 

Jaskier hesitates, hovers, and Geralt leans forward an inch more; their usual franticness isn’t present, and it almost feels as if they’re two morons under the bleachers at the football game Eskel had dragged them to, unhurried and in love.

Jaskier tenses. “Geralt,” he mumbles, hands pushing at his chest, “Geralt stop.” Geralt fights a shudder at the panic in Jaskier’s eyes, at the stiff way he holds himself. “I just want to hold you tonight, one last night.” Geralt feels his blood run cold in his veins, “I came here to tell you that we can’t do this anymore, dear heart.” He cups his jaw, so gentle as he peers into Geralt’s very soul. His eyes are so red, swollen and glistening with tears. “I have a boyfriend.” 

Geralt’s heart stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'd you think? I had a blast writing this lol.
> 
> Next chapter'll be more substantial (SPOILERS): I'm thinking either a scene where geralt goes to his brother's house after jaskier finds out he cheated, and they're like oh no, what have you done geralt, and then geralt gets home, and it's so empty, and he realizes that jaskier actually bought a ring for him, and realizes what they could have had; he tries the ring on and can't bare to take it off. 
> 
> Your guys' ideas are just as vile as mine, we're all absolutely terrible to these two and I'm so here for it. 
> 
> Lemme know what ya thought bls,,,,,
> 
> [Edit: we now have an alternate ending with valdo/jask that happens consecutively after this chapter due to popular request for a jask in a happy relationship not with geralt can be found here!! ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27573070)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline-wise: happens after jaskier finds geralt cheating.

Limp isn’t the right word. His fingers can curl into fists, and his legs work fine. Limp isn’t the right word— numb, maybe? Jaskier was the wordsmith not him. Something hurts; Geralt doesn’t know what exactly. Everything, mostly, he thinks. Jaskier doesn’t pick up his calls. Nor does he read his texts.

Stupid. He was so fucking stupid. He curls his hand into a fist, stares down at the hardwood floor that Jaskier had been so excited to restain, stares at the soft bed that Jaskier had told him story upon endless story on, stares at the window where— 

Gods. _Gods._

He never learns. Visenna had abandoned him without hesitancy, Yennefer had walked away, and Jaskier— well, Geralt had driven him away on his own. The sun sets, and his phone buzzes. 

He drops it in the sink in his haste, digging out from under dirty dishes. His hands are slick with water as he swipes to open it, shaking as he flick open the messages app… 

_You okay?_ Cobalt blue eyes stare back at up, profile picture capturing him in a cool smile. Geralt stares at it. His hand burns. He’s screaming, jaw nearly unhinged and his throat so raw— his phone crashes against the tile of the floor, shattering, and he’s screaming— not grieving, no, but he’s so _angry_ , and he’s so— he’s so… 

Tired. The handles of their cabinets press against his back as he slides down to their lime green paint-dotted floor. What’s he done? What the fuck has he done? To Jaskier of all people? To kind Jaskier, to loving Jaskier? To Jaskier that has been hurt a million times over by those he’d loved. hHw the fuck had Geralt become one of those people? He shudders. He doesn’t sob; the tears don’t come, the grief doesn’t come, he _refuses_ to believe that this is the end of it. It can’t be. It won’t be. 

But Gods, he feels so numb.

He grabs his car keys, and locks the door Jaskier had slammed behind him. The sun hides behind the clouds, thunder rumbling in the craze of the storm, the traffic’s shit, and the road work continues on as it’s been doing for years— his lips twitch in a smile at the thought of Jaskier waiting for him after work, and his stomach drops realizing that he won’t be. 

Eskel answers the door, greeting him with a grin and a hug; Geralt has half a mind to reciprocate it, tucking his head into his brother’s neck. He wants to let go, but he’s suddenly gone from numb to limp, and he can’t. He’ll fall, into the ground, under the dirt, and he doesn’t know if he has the courage to climb out again.

“Geralt?” His body feels so heavy, and his legs like lead. He can’t—

“I _can’t_ , Esk,” he mutters. Sobs. Lambert places a worried hand on his shoulder, Vesemir’s footsteps loud on the hardwood floor as they guide Geralt to a dining chair. His body shakes, a hand firmly clasped over his mouth as tears drop down over the back of his hand.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Vesemir asks, kneeling beside him. Lambert and Eskel look down at him with worry he doesn’t deserve, with care, and Geralt gasps with a sob as he tries to find his words. He hasn’t said it out loud, hasn’t even thought the words in the privacy of his mind. “Geralt,” Vesemir says gently, running a hand through the wild strands of Geralt’s hair, “Tell us what’s wrong.”

“I,” he stutters, voice faltering into a hoarse whisper, “I cheated on him.” 

The room hangs in silence, and Lambert’s the first one to break it. “You _what?”_ If there had been anyone who’d loved Jaskier more than Geralt himself, it was his family; Geralt flinches as his brother kicks a chair, raging. “You fucking _what!”_ He shouts, and Eskel stares at Geralt, uncomprehending. Vesemir doesn’t move. “You asshole, I’m gonna fucking _kill you—”_ Lambert stomps closer, hands clenched—

“Lambert, stop.” Vesemir calls, and his brother writhes in Eskel’s grip as he drags him outside shouting. He can hear the anger in his brothers’ voices, and feel the heavy disappointment in his father’s silence. Vesemir stands to lock the door behind them, and comes back to kneel by Geralt’s feet. They sit in silence, neither of them sure what to say as Geralt props his elbow on the table, and cries into his hand

Vesemir holds his other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a couple author's notes to get through so bear with me here lol: 
> 
> 1\. I edited the past chapters so if you want to read the angst in HD, there you go.
> 
> 2\. **Alternate ending[with Jaskier/a nice, caring boyfriend that is-not-geralt is out now!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27573070)** Go read it, it was so lovely to write and I've been rereading it since (i just,,, love it ok?)
> 
> 3\. If you noticed: I changed the number of chapters to /10. That's just a random number to signal that this fic isn't completed yet. (I personally don't like using the ? for this fic 'cause it feels like too much pressure to get it complete, so the random number works fine for me). There may be more or less than 10 chapters we're just Writing.
> 
> 4\. I’m the slowest updator in the world— I started this fic back in july, and we're still in the thick of it (? i really have no plan here, i'll right as long as I have something to add to this) and yet,,, here we are,,,, I have been reading and rereading your guys’ comments I’m 
> 
> 5\. This thing is really a collaboration between all of us, and I hope you’re all enjoying how i’m choosing to mash up all our ideas together. Personally, I'm having so much fun lol. 
> 
> 6\. I think the next chapter to this fic'll be jaskier's relationship with his new boyfriend (not related to the alternative ending). Ultimately, this relationship in this verse is gonna fall apart and jaskier's going to have to find himself and heal and grow with a non-romantic support system.
> 
> 7\. I'll have another alternate ending where jask and geralt get back together (after copious amounts of work) but that's for the future. 
> 
> 8\. Your comments really keep me going despite all my stress and school and stuff. I know we're all in this together what with covid and shitty major life changing stressors, so thanks for sticking along for the ride and leaving me comments to look forward to. I love, love, love interacting with you guys <333


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happens after the playground scene. Read updated tags please! Mentions of past abuse!

Jaskier detests him. He detests the softness of his eyes, the adoration on his face. Detests how softly he touches him. Gods, how fake, how  _ fake _ . Chireadan smiles happily, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and Jaskier smiles the same one back.

“This is fun.” It is, being tucked into the side of a warm body, resting with faux contentment on their bed as they snack. “It’s been so long since we’ve done this, hasn’t it, love?” Chireadan presses a kiss to Jaskier’s brown locks, hugging him closer. 

He detests him. Not sure who, if he hates himself for clinging to a pipedream or if he hates Chireadan more for being so indulgent. Jaskier had once adored love. Adored the carefree touches and the hope of forever and the together. How stupid, he thinks, how stupid of him to wish for things untrue, of things that will and never would be. He should’ve quit while he was ahead, he thinks. Valdo had been a good boyfriend, caring, lovely— they’d both been fresh out of college, happy and stupid and hopeful. Gods, Jaskier doesn’t even recognize the man he was. Or perhaps he doesn’t recognize the man he is now. 

“It is.” Melitele. What’s he doing? 

Chireadan is good. Good in the same way that Valdo was, and good in the same way every other past boyfriend wasn’t. He didn’t come home drunk, didn’t come back covered in shameless hickeys, didn’t punch him, kick him, hit him. He’s so good, and yet so terrible all the same. Chireadan is good; a good liar, that is. Pretending Jaskier’s lovable, pretending Jaskier has anything worthwhile anyone’s time, how awful lying right to his face.

The men on-screen shout, scaling the side of the world’s tallest building. Jaskier wonders what it would feel like to fall. Probably not dissimilar to what he’s feeling now.

_ Just let me die, me die. _

Chireadan runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier squeezes his eyes together and pretends the tear that runs down his face is a figment of his imagination. “Hey, you okay?” Oh, damn you, Jaskier wants to say, oh, damn you. 

_ Give me back my heart, you wingless thing _ , he wants to scream. Geralt won’t hear him. There’s no point, no point to anything. “Yeah,” Jaskier mutters instead, “this movie’s just stressful.” The man jumps from the side, sliding down. Can barely see the ground from there. 

“Do you want to change it, darling?” Gods fuck. Jaskier purses his lips together, trying to fight back the sobs. Why  _ now? _ Why now, he’s having a breakdown  _ now? _ Chireadan doesn’t deserve this, deserve to put up with someone like Jaskier, something like Jaskier. He deserves love, and happiness, and Jaskier’s the very opposite of just fucking that. He shakes his head numbly and presses a fluttering kiss to Chireadan’s lips. 

“Fuck me?” He asks. That’s the one thing he can offer, isn’t it? In this pathetic attempt to cling onto his dreams of being in love, Jaskier can at least offer his body. Chireadan looks at him for a moment longer, head tilted and eyes soft in worry. 

“Are you sure that’s what you want, Jas?”  _ Jas _ . How fucking unfair, oh Melitle, Jaskier had loved  _ so much _ . He’s tried so hard to be good, and yet, here he is in the arms of a man he’ll never love, heart shattered by the one he does. 

“Yeah,” it isn’t, “it is.” 

  
  


Jaskier lays flushed under sweaty sheets, Chireadan underneath him. It’s the same godawful position Jaskier had found Geralt in, he can’t do this,  _ he can’t do this. _

“Jaskier,” Chireadan says, a gentle hand cupping his neck, his cheek. “Jaskier, I think we should stop.” 

He’s beautiful, hair ruffled, cheeks pink and lips swollen with kisses. Jaskier thinks it about time they did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the short chapter ahh. the closer this gets to getting better, the harder it becomes to write 😬😬


	9. Chapter 9

He wishes he could throw the bones of the earth over his shoulder, watch them sprout into something beautiful, something new but his marrow’s rotted and the bones are brittle. 

Most days, his bed is his greatest enemy. The sun rises too soon, sets too soon and a cigarette turns into a pack. A finger of rum turns into half a bottle; a cloth on the floor turns into a pile of and it goes on, and _on, and on_. 

One by one. A second into a minute into an hour into a day. 

One by one.

He’s alone, now. His life’s in fucking shambles, and he’s alone, and—

One more. One by one. He can do this, he’s done worse and this’ll just be another thing. Just another thing, he tells himself, like he hasn’t lost everything, like he still has hope of fixing himself, of being better, of being loveable, likeable. He just wants—

He just wants.

The boxcutter is alluring. As is his balcony. He walks away from it. One step at a time, one breath at a time, one day at a time— _one by one_. Jaskier’s been alone for most of his life. He hates it, by Gods he does— what’s he to live for? What’s left?

He grabs his jacket. One. Grabs his shoes. Two. And locks the door behind him. Three. One by fucking one. 

The chill air nips at his nose as he walks down the street. Puddlewater mucks his boots. ~~Before~~ If he’s about to die, he wants to play dress up, just laugh with himself for a little bit, dress in the stupidest clothes. He used to love his thigh high boots, and cropped shirts. What’s become of him? He barely recognizes himself.

“Excuse me,” someone calls for him. The kid pulls at his coat, looking up at him with vivid green eyes and rich red hair. If he and Geralt had had a child, it would’ve looked like— 

“Can I help you?” He asks, looking down at the kid. The kid looks thoughtful, muttering to himself. Jaskier wants to ruffle his hair, it looks fluffy.

“I’m… lost,” he whimpers at last. “My mommy. I can’t find her,” the kid mutters. “She said we were going to the park! And I played in the sand and built a castle!” His eyes light up at the memory before they dim out, “But when I wanted to show her, she wasn’t there anymore,” he trails out sadly.

“Alright,” Jaskier squats to eye level, smiling at him. Poor kid must be terrified. “Alright, what’s your name, darling?” 

“Emil,” she says, eyes defiant, “And I’m a boy! Don’t call me darling.” His little eyes squint up at him, daring him to say something. Jaskier doesn’t want to think about what that means but his heart breaks all the same. 

“How about I take you to the police, Emil?” He ruffles his hair, unable to help himself. The kid glares at him before rising to his tippy toes and giving Jaskier’s disheveled hair a pat pat. 

“They won’t help me. I tried.” Jaskier takes a breath. _One_ . And lets it out. _Two_.

“Okay. My name’s Jaskier,” he smiles at his curious tilt of head, “and I’m not a boy or a girl.” The kid nods decisively and takes Jaskier’s hand, pulling him in the opposite direction from where Jaskier was heading.

“Where’re you taking me, Emil?” He doesn’t stop pulling at his hand, and Jaskier trails after her. 

“Home.” 

“Home?” 

“This is the way you came from, isn’t it? And I think you were coming from home, so we’re headed back that way.” Emil doesn’t look back at him, and Jaskier trails after him, having seemingly acquired a child. 

“Alright,” Jaskier sighs. He’ll figure this out. Yenn’s a lawyer. They’ll figure this out.

“Good,” he states, and starts tugging harder. 

The sidewalk is wet under their feet.

_One, two, three, four._


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter!!

Yennefer is as unhelpful as ever. “The kid’s mom was reported missing two decades ago, Jaskier.” The glasses she’ll forever deny wearing slide down her nose as she stares at him from across the table. “He’ll have to go into foster care,” she kicks up her feet, unworried. She knows well that Jaskier can’t let that fucking happen. He’s heard enough of his ex’s horror stories about being in the system, whispered into small spaces shared on soft beds under warm nights— 

“You’ll have to take him.” Yennefer laughs, surprised and a little unhinged. That’s a no then. Jaskier drops his head into his hands, palms digging into his eyes. He’s  _ so tired _ . Depressed and suicidal are not characteristics fit to take care of a child. The tap runs behind him, and he looks up to see Yennefer looking behind him. 

Emil stands on his toes, glass held above his head in an attempt to catch water in the cup. He’s  _ so small,  _ and the ever-aching weight in Jaskier’s chest eases for the first time in years. He stands and comes to stand by Emil, unsure— Incessant arms are held up, the boy’s face demanding. Jaskier lifts him with ever-shaky hands, and sets the boy down after he turns the tap off. 

“Thanks, Jas,” he calls, and half-runs back into the living room to flop in front of Jaskier’s shitty Tv. 

“So?” Yennefer calls.  _ Fuck _ . He looks at the fridge dotted with drawings of trees and birds that Emil had made with Jaskier’s expensive pens. He looks at the chicken stew boiling on the stove, and the extra pair of small shoes by the door. He looks at the ceiling, popcorned and whitewashed, and listens to the sound of PBS kids running in the living room.

“Yeah,” he sighs. He’s the only one left for the kid, and in some twisted way, Jaskier figures that the kid’s the only one left for him. Yennefer stands, pulling him into her arms. He hugs back, fat tears dripping from his eyes. “Yeah,” he answers her unasked question. “I’m sure.” 

  
  
  


Yennefer has papers for him to sign and promises for him to make. He makes every one, and he’s exhausted by the end of them. He’ll have to find a new job outside wailing at late night bars, and godssake, baby proof the apartment (“I’m  _ five _ .” And he’s thirty-two and still stubs his toe, thank you very much). He has to figure out schooling for the kid, and babysitting when he’s not home (Yennefer already looks enamoured with Emil)—

But for now, the shitty Tv cracks and cackles as Road Runner darts down the highway and another Acme product blows up spectacularly. For now, Emil laughs, and tucks himself into Jaskier’s side. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier loves; for the first time in a long time, Geralt doesn't haunt Jaskier's mind.

For the first time in a long time, Jaskier sees hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dont know if this was a satisfying end or not but it's!! over! i dunno if i'll write a thing where jask and geralt get back together, but for now, i'm done with this verse whoo 
> 
> tumblr: @persony-pepper
> 
> ediT: fucking lied there's going to be one more chapter to actually wrap it up, it'll have some more emotions and some more angst and then we'll see jaskier finally move on.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hi on tumblr @persony-pepper](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)


End file.
